“Have they burst yet?” “No,” said my sister, exasperated, eyes heavenward. “They must have burst by now. Use your spoon!”

This was the pair of us on Christmas Day. It’s the same every year. Eventually my parents huddle over the stove too, peering at the texture of the cranberry sauce (you don’t want mush, but nor do you want unpopped berries). They’re always cooked in a little orange juice, port added once the sauce is cool. My mother taught us never to add any sugar until the berries had burst. And we always leave it to the last minute.

The British have a strange relationship with cranberries. It’s not “our” berry, though a wild variety does grow here. Cranberry sauce is part of American Thanksgiving, but I’m glad we’ve adopted it (you know that the turkey you slightly overcooked will benefit from its moistness, and its tartness is perfect with sweet, herby stuffing). Whereas Americans use cranberries

in many different ways – sweet and savoury – we just buy big bags for Christmas and then forget about them. Why? It’s not as though winter pulsates with colour. Every year I stockpile them. (If you couldn’t find any on Christmas Eve it’s probably because I’d bought them. They are fantastic keepers and will sit in the fridge for months.)

I suppose what I like about the cranberry is what many people dislike. It is bitter, tart, assertive. Which is why it is so useful. Lovely though they are, by January apples and pears have started to pall a little. They need a kick, and the cranberry is the fruit to give them one. Many of our favourite desserts – tarts, crumbles, bread-and-butter pudding – can be improved by these sour jolts.

They’re even good with chocolate. Fill your favourite chocolate cake (make sure it’s a dark, slightly bitter one) with mascarpone and the same cranberry sauce you made for Christmas lunch – a winter wonder. And cranberries aren’t just for the turkey. Many of the people who established cranberry-growing in Massachusetts were from Cape Verde and brought their own tastes. When the harvest is over, the farmers and pickers celebrate with roast pork and cranberry sauce. Russians add horseradish to it to serve with beef. And it’s the berry I use in place of the impossible-to-find lingonberry for Swedish meatballs.

Come on. Blackberries finished in September. Strawberries won’t be in until June. Don’t you think there’s room for a gutsy little berry in between? Better stock up before I do.